


En's Kinktober 2018 Collection

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Angelo "Mercy" Ziegler - Freeform, Angst, Aphrodisiacs, Blow Jobs, Bodily Fluids, Bondage, Bottom Hanzo Shimada, Bottom Tekhartha Zenyatta, Chastity Device, Closet Sex, Clothing Kink, Concept Art Mercy (Overwatch) - Freeform, Corsetry, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, Fantasizing, Fucking Machines, Glory Hole, Human Zenyatta, Hunter Jesse McCree, Kinktober, Kinktober 2018, Lap Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oni Genji Shimada, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Public Sex, Sanzang Zenyatta, Scents & Smells, Scion Hanzo Shimada, Scissoring, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Sexual Fantasy, Sixty-nine, Size Difference, Sloppy Seconds, Stockings, Stuffing, Sugar Daddy, Top Doomfist: The Successor | Akande Ogundimu, Top Jesse McCree, Trans Character, Trans Lúcio Correia dos Santos, Trans Male Character, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, remote play, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: Short and spicy kinktober fics chosen via ko-fi! Pairings/kinks listed at the start of each chapter.





	1. Doomfist/Zenyatta, clothing play, size difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Doomfist/Zenyatta  
>  **Warnings:** clothing play, semi-public sex, against a wall, size difference, stuffing, valve

****"I'm so pleased you wore it."

Akande traces the gold, single gun-edge of his vermillion qipao. The side slits part at mid thigh, accentuating the long, intricate lines of Zenyatta’s legs. In a sea of business elites and politicians, the outfit makes Zenyatta nameless, just one among the throng of ambitious omnics rising through society’s ranks.

If only it did not fit so well.

In the several occasions they met off the battlefield, trapped within the social mores of ceremonies and galas, Akande had learned Zenyatta's every curve, commissioned a dress that follows the dip of his waist and the flare of his hips, stopping perfectly at ankle length. It should make Zenyatta afraid, having such an intent, watchful eye on his body.

"It serves its purpose," Zenyatta replies.

His words will do him no good now. Not pinned to the wall with his arms framing his body. Not when Akande found him alone between one loud room and the next, capturing him in an instant.

Now, he stares at Akande’s chest as the man hooks his fingers beneath one of the slits. The fabric whispers inward an inch or so, exposing the barest edge of teal tucked between his thighs. No panel covering him, not tonight.

Zenyatta knows he should resist. If he did, Akande would bow out, let him return to the ceremony.

He doesn’t resist.

"My imagination could not supply a better image," Akande murmurs, then softer still. "I could give you so many things, Zenyatta."

The omnic shakes his head once.

"And what is it you want in return?"

Akande's hand tightens around his thigh, nearly able to encircle the component completely.

"You know the answer."

Zenyatta does. He does, so he grasps the flap of fabric and draws it aside, teal inner workings exposed completely, an ache building like a storm.

Akande makes a low sound and dips his head, lips level with his aural sensors.

"Surrendering so easily?"

He cups the exposed slice between Zenyatta’s thighs. The smooth, cool metal of a finger drags across his slit, catching the beginnings of wetness, and Zenyatta jerks, his hips rocking forward, cock sliding into the open air.

Akande's expression pins him as much as his massive body urging him against the wall, allowing Zenyatta no reprieve.

"You wish for me to struggle?"

Akande is dangerous. Powerful in any setting, spinning arguments and philosophies that Zenyatta counters until he grows weary of talk. Akande is, firstly, a man of action.

His faceplate rests against the cool wall. He's not sure he can look directly at the man cupping his lower body, working more slick from him, hot, needy chirps that he struggles to suppress. Akande’s other hand teases the base of his cock, already leaking teal.

"You have no idea how you look to me."

Zenyatta shudders.

It’s too easy to lose himself under those hands, metal gone hot and smooth against his opening, shockingly slippery. The sounds reverberate in his sensors, wet, quiet drags as Akande’s fingers part him, stroking, shifting deeper. His other hand, calloused, rougher, drags over the sensor just beneath his glans, his systems struggling with the input, shorting out tiny, unnecessary processes that only make it harder to think.

“Will you come on my fingers, monk?”

A single digit presses deeper; his array flares as it curls, swiveling against a hidden sensor. How did he—

Zenyatta grabs Akande’s biceps for purchase, rutting against his hands, once, twice, before he realizes the man has stopped moving, leaving the omnic steaming and fucking himself on his fingers. His hips settle, Akande buried inside him, depressing his sensor, processors stuttering, working at a speed that dizzies him.

It takes him several tries, synth glitching, hot with embarrassment.

“N-no. I…” Words fail. Action. Action.

He reaches down, fingers finding the long, startlingly thick line of Akande’s cock, and drags along its length.

The man hisses through his teeth, an unexpected give that emboldens him.

“With this,” Zenyatta says.

Akande tugs out of him, fingers fumbling over his buckle and buttons, exposing his cock, large, swollen and gleaming. He hefts Zenyatta up, a startled whir escaping him, hands hot and uncompromising on the underside of his thighs. Akande drags his cock along Zenyatta’s slit, glowing now, primed and eager, his cock twitching just above, leaking onto the expensive silk of his dress.

Zenyatta, dizzied, finds Akande’s gaze boring into him, teasing gone, a serious, startling gleam in his eyes.

“What you do to me…” Is all Akande manages before he leans back and bears down.

“O-oh—” Zenyatta whirs, gasping at the pressure, the wet sound of him being speared open.

There are no words for it, taking something bigger than his body was built for, so stretched his insides can only flutter weakly around it, each inch flattening another painfully online sensor. Deep ones he cannot even reach with his own hands.

“Hold onto me.”

Zenyatta’s hands fist into his lapels, whole body quaking as more and more sinks into him, feeling endless, just on the side of bearable, until the solid mass of Akande’s body meets his own.

The wall and a single arm are enough to keep him pinned, and Akande finds Zenyatta’s cock, grasps it lazily. His breathing harshens, hot exhalations fogging his chrome. Zenyatta cannot move, every sensor alight, filled so deeply he feels it in the tender, inner workings of his middle. Slowly, trembling, he tilts his array down, gasp lodged in his synth. Faint but obvious is the outline of Akande’s cock, tenting the qipao from the inside.

Akande shifts, groaning when he follows Zenyatta’s gaze, begins to pull back, and Zenyatta scrambles, tugging his lapels hard, legs jerking.

“N-no, I cannot, I’ll—”

The sound that rumbles out of Akande, dark and startling, shorts his processes. Akande withdraws, slow, each sensor overloaded, one by one aching with his absence; Zenyatta’s fingers strain uselessly at the man’s chest as his world narrows to that delicious, agonizing slide.

Almost completely emptied, a fear steals over the monk: if Akande leaves him now, let’s him go—his synth shorts on his yell, fizzling into broken, jumbled groans as the man shoves back inside. He overloads, coming on Akande’s cock, ruining his dress with hard pulses of slick, little caught by the hand gently milking its base.

Laughter he can barely process registers on his sensors, deep and so very pleased.

“So soon? We have only just begun.”

Only then does Akande take him apart.


	2. McHanzo, chastity play sequel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing** : McCree/Hanzo  
>  **Warnings** : chastity play, cock cage, dirty talk, domsub, exhibitionism, Hanzo fantasizing about other men on the team, slight Reincio, remote toy play, blowjob, fluids, mention of public shaving and other hygiene things, stink kink...let me know if i need more tags
> 
> Notes: This is a sequel to [Worth the Wait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12991716/chapters/30106098)! Hope it was worth the wait. ;)
> 
>  

****McCree doesn’t take the cage off that time or the next.

Hanzo can’t decide which is worse, spending day and night under lock, hoping for mercy, or the chance it might actually be granted.

McCree inspects the cage almost every day to make sure it’s not chafing, that’s it’s only uncomfortable when Hanzo lets his mind wander. He shaves Hanzo when his pubes get too long, cooing for him to be still in a smoky, gentle tone. Hanzo stays flushed and quiet through the humiliation, the care, that McCree gives, suppressing a shiver with each drag of the blade.

He relieves himself sitting down, the tips of his ears burning, necessary to keep clean, another small, daily embarrassment that reminds him how powerless he is. Washing his lower body becomes doubly important, the thought of infection or having McCree see him filthy too much to bear. After a long training session is particularly dangerous. If he isn’t careful, McCree would find him, sweat-slick and stinking.

It happened only once before. McCree had ushered him into the storage closet just outside the archery range, biting down his chest while Hanzo held his gi open, just as McCree had ordered. His scent seemed only to enchant the cowboy, eyes glazed and cheeks bright above his beard, mouthing along his caged cock with slovenly kisses.

Yes, he would have to be much more careful to avoid that.

Being caged focused him. Most of his life had been a struggle, a scramble for control, abstaining from what could destroy him beneath the eyes of the clan. His lone absolution was watching with furtive glances, dreaming of what he couldn't have. The cage denies even such minuscule pleasure. To let his sights linger on Reinhardt’s huge, scarred back, flexing as he spars, or Jack's chest in a worn tank top, reclined and sipping a beer in the common area, means his doom, reduces him to an aching mess beneath the innocent gazes of his teammates.

He does not discuss these feelings with McCree, but somehow he thinks the cowboy knows exactly what he’s experiencing. Perhaps he had also been caged before, trapped beneath the watchful eye of his own keyholder.

Another exercise in madness: joining his brother's master in meditation. It worked somewhat when he was younger, during simpler times when his only sorrows were the tutors’ harsh words and his father's absence on long trips. With eyes closed and the soft machinations of Zenyatta's body humming in the dark, he realizes his shame, another bout of yearning that would've escaped his notice unlocked.

How his own body could be so salacious for so many things never ceased to appall. To thrill.

* * *

"Aw, darlin'. No need for that now. We had a deal, remember?"

Hanzo tries not to balk, knuckles white around the edge of the table he’s bent over. He’s naked from the waist down, presenting, submitting to McCree while the man plays with his ass, body so primed for touch that his cock throbs against the cage, squeezed inside and out by steel. His mind buzzes, lost in the pain-pleasure-madness of it. The only thing that keeps him from fury is its fruitlessness; anger would not unlock him, outrage earns him nothing but more time under key, less of McCree's hands on his body. So he dips his head, hanging loathsomely between his tense, trembling shoulders while McCree feeds him a third finger, slick and smooth. No pain in the motion, not even close. Sweat rolls down his face with the effort not to press back into each touch, to not chase his filthy pleasure against fingers that mean to punish him.

He had been so foolish. The party had gone south quickly after several rounds of alcohol, a game of dares begun with bleary eyes and dangerous smiles. The first dare, a chaste kiss delivered from Zenyatta to Lúcio, made Hanzo scoff even as he watched with sidelong glance. The omnic has no lips, nothing pleasant to press against, but the smaller man smiled into it, eyes rounding as if shocked by the sensation.

Another dare: a deep kiss. A round of chuckles. It was mostly men at the watchpoint that night, and the tension to perform was high, however stupid such things are. Reinhardt had just finished the large stein held in his even larger fist, the foam of his beer flecked upon his mustache.

Hanzo had stared, lips balanced at his own sake cup as Lúcio crawled into the man's lap, threading his fingers into the thick, white hair behind his ears and tugging him down. Lúcio could kiss, was all Hanzo managed to think, kiss well, kiss thoroughly, kiss for way too long in such company, the lash of tongue visible outside their mouths, a shocking squeak rumbling from the larger man's chest.

Lúcio was the first to withdraw, eyes thin, as mischievous as Hanzo’d ever seen someone besides McCree or men in the holovids he snuck as a teenager, ashamed and curious. He must have looked as shocked as Reinhardt, light skin cherried, strangely bashful for being such a force of a man. Lúcio could control the large man, even half his size and width, with his comforting voice and dexterous hands. Would Reinhardt submit so readily to every command he would give?

It had forced sense from Hanzo’s mind, made him retreat earlier than politeness dictated. McCree had not even been at the gathering, so he had not thought to look for him, had not thought himself so exposed, the vision of the two locked against one another an afterimage branded.

The door to his room couldn’t close fast enough. He felt numb and stupid as he tugged at his clothes, cursed the cage in violent, lashing Japanese, the only thing that he could control, but not for long. McCree never had to know. So he thought, so stupid.

_Not to endure. To accept._

He spat, spat of all things, into his palm, his body trembling as if he might pass out, melt his mind completely as he stuffed his fingers inside. He even held his caged cock uselessly in his hand, traced over the bars, the red light mocking him as worked himself open, let his mind wander from the mismatched pair to one with tobacco on his breath and the devil in his eye. Feeding him fingers, teasing him, never letting him come, making himself needy and so useless he could hardly stand it.

And that's how McCree had found him, three fingers deep in his ass, body flushed from ear to toe, lost within his own fantasies, seconds from finding release by his own hand.

Now, damn his wandering mind, damn his lusts, damn the cowboy who's giving him what he's wanted just not in the way he needs.

"This is for your own good. I know you're proud. 's one of the reasons I like ya so much. Now even if I'm not there, you'll be taken care of."

His fingers withdraw seconds too soon, in haunting mimicry of the night before, when Hanzo had been so shamefully caught, when he had tried to claim power for himself when to even think of such was an exercise in insanity. Hanzo whimpers, pathetic and loud, mortified as something decidedly large but not McCree's cock presses at his entrance.

_Accept._

The metal of McCree's hand pets down his spine, a comforting weight. Tears tighten his eyes, and they spill as McCree begins to feed him the toy. His body suckles it greedily; with a few smooth presses the flared base rests against his ass. Filled to the brink. Claimed. McCree radiates heat next to him, fully clothed. Hanzo would beg for his cock, but knows such words are useless, not when he sees the wildness in the man’s eyes, blackened with control.

"God, you're beautiful. I wanna take a picture."

The strike of a match, the bright aroma of tobacco touches his palate, slows Hanzo’s harried breathing as he clutches and twitches around the toy. The motions do little more than pluck at his already frayed restraint.

"Don't worry. I won't send you out 'til you're ready. Catch your breath, honeysuckle." The petting never ceases, and Hanzo sags into it, the chaste touch the only thing keeping him grounded.

"This'll be good for you. You'll see. You just gotta let go of all that stubbornness. You'll feel so much better. I'll take care of everything." A dry, rough finger traces over his lips, and Hanzo opens his mouth without question. The gunslinger chuckles, not unkind.

"Why couldn't you have been so sweet before? I suppose that's how punishment makes you."

McCree's patient. It's not something you'd expect from a man with such appetites, but when it came to training Hanzo, easing him into things he thought he could never do, he's a saint, stalwart and disciplined. Hanzo had believed the same of himself, but now, forced from the room with a firm but gentle pat from McCree, he's unsure.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and he has no choice.

He nearly stumbles in his first few steps, but tightens his stride, face burning with each shift and clench of his muscles. Hanzo breathes out of his nose, trying to ignore how fat his cock feels in confinement, the toy stretching his rim without reprieve, the barest vibrations flittering against his prostate, just gentle enough to be bearable.

The task is simple: fetch McCree a cup of coffee from the kitchen. Few would be awake so early, and many shipped out before the sun rose on a mission halfway across the world. He may not meet a soul to or from, and he clings to that hope, the sliver of his mind that says this will be easy, he can do this.

Several steps from the kitchen, and he stumbles. There's a ruckus, even through the door. His heart slams against his ribs, the buzz inside him picking up as if McCree knew he nears his destination, that the kitchen is in fact full of life. He breathes, and even that is shaky, his knees are seconds from collapsing beneath him, but he pushes open the door, hoping that he can retrieve the drink quickly and be done with it.

Mei and Dr. Zielger both turn, genial smiles on their pretty, tired faces. Hana doesn't look up from her game, tongue just balanced outside her rosy lips, face locked in concentration.

Jack's in front of the flat grill flipping pancakes, and Zenyatta stands to his left mixing more batter. The coffee maker is woefully behind all the commotion.

On display. That's the only word for it. Even as the women's gazes fall back to each other, even as Hana's howl of victory overshadows Zenyatta's greeting. Does he walk strangely, how flushed does he appear, sickly? Shamefully? It's a century before he reaches the coffee maker and opens the cabinet above it, rattling the china as he shakily grabs the handle of a mug. He doesn't even remember how McCree likes his coffee. Would that add another layer of punishment? Would he turn the toy up, make him walk among strangers? Keep him under lock for another week?

Coffee splashes over the counter at first. Swearing internally, Hanzo corrects himself, knees locking to keep himself upright as the vibrations increase. He's as hard as he can be under lock, staining his fundoshi with pre, mind a worthless blur as he struggles to do such a simple task.

"You feelin’ alright?" A hand at his bicep, the voice soft. He turns owlishly towards Lúcio, the short man looking up at him with a concerned tilt to his lips. “You’re kinda flushed.”

It takes all of his power not to freeze on the spot. Hanzo works his jaw, trapped by the smaller man’s gaze. He wants to help. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know he’s claimed and controlled front and back, fighting off whimpers and orgasm.

_Accept it._

He exhales through his nose.

“Yes. I am just...under the weather.”

Lúcio’s hand falls away, residual warmth settling into his skin.

“Oh, that’s no good. Stop by the med bay later if you still feel bad, okay?”

He nods as another wave of pleasure crests over him. Only his upbringing keeps his face something near neutral, at least he hopes. Hanzo moves across the kitchen as quickly as he can manage, tiny grunts bubbling forth from his throat as soon as he enters the hallway. No reprieve, not when the toy picks up, vibrations loud enough to hear.

He throws open the door to his room, startling McCree who lounges in an armchair, holopad balanced on his lap.

“That was quick.” He looks the man up and down, smiling, closed-mouth and easy. “Close the door. Come over here.”

Hanzo scrambles to McCree, vanity stripped as soon as it’s the two of them, no matter how hotly his shame clings to him. Rough, warm fingers thread into his hair, dragging along his scalp, tender, not what he wants as the toy ruins his thoughts.

“Must’ve been some trip. Missing something?”

Hanzo stares, wide-eyed up at McCree, mouth falling open. Then.

The coffee.

“Please, I—”

“No need for that. You did good, even if you didn’t do what I asked.” He sighs, pupils dark and wide as he stares down at him. “Though it means I can’t let you out, you understand.”

The familiar burn at his eyes startles him, emotions flopping, cascading into one another. McCree’s metal fingers cup his chin, gently, so gently.

“I’ll let you suck me off, okay? Be a doll and take my cock out.”

He can’t move fast enough, struggling with the buckle beneath his stupid fingers, McCree shifting only enough to make the task possible, pants resting just beneath the huge, tight swell of his balls. Somehow that is what Hanzo finds comforting, how hard and eager McCree is, though his slow, calm words would have him believe the opposite. He tugs his boxer-briefs down, that fat cock nearly smacking him, fingers nearly clasped around it when—

“No. Just yer mouth.”

Hanzo’s eyes flicker up to McCree’s face, into that pleased grin while Hanzo flounders.

“Cross your arms behind your back.”

He breaks, and so quickly, crosses his arms and leans forward, the heady bite of sweat and musk overwhelming him. Hanzo drags his tongue along its length, eyes rolling back, moan exhaled shakily over hot skin. He laves the entire head before sucking it down, and McCree relaxes, widening his legs just a bit more. He doesn’t even direct Hanzo, lifts the holopad in one hand, and Hanzo growls, swallowing more of his length, relaxing just as he was taught, taking it deeper, inch by inch.

He struggles every time like this. McCree is huge by girth and length, but need, stubbornness wins out. Hanzo whines, muffled, into McCree’s soft middle, absolutely blitzed and breathless, working the cock in his throat while the pleased huff of his master rings in his ears.

“There you go. How’s that?”

Stuffed everywhere, claimed everywhere, by his own submission. McCree controlling all of him. He starts fucking his mouth on his cock, whining, cradling it with his tongue, pulling back only when his vision grows hazy. Spit and pre smear across his lips, into his beard. Disgusting, messy, but McCree watches him over the glow of the holopad, finger balanced just above its interface.

There are no thoughts, just motions, the sizzling of pleasure, helplessness, accepting that his struggle, his pleas will accomplish nothing. He drools over McCree’s cock as he retreats to breathe, his saliva coating every inch, glistening and shockingly red.

The toy whirs suddenly, harsh and unbelievably quick, and Hanzo howls, clenching, bearing down, too much, he can’t stop it, watery gaze finding McCree, unseeing.

The man fists his own cock as Hanzo loses himself, swearing and whimpering and coming hard enough that he thrashes, cum oozing around the steel inside him, slicking up his clothes, his cage, crying from the endless stimulation.

McCree’s deep grunt is an afterthought, warm ropes of his cum landing on his nose and across his cheeks and lips, catching a stripe on his tongue, salty and thick. He swallows on instinct, panting like he’s on the run and the pursuers are nearly upon him.

The toy quiets, a reprieve he doesn’t deserve but takes it like the gift that it is, collapsing against McCree’s legs, face buried into his warm, clothed thigh as he catches his breath.

A hand pets through his hair again, cups the back of his neck, sweet as a first crush. Slipping to capture his soiled cheek in his palm.

“You’re so lovely for me. Love you, Han.”

Hanzo nuzzles into his touch, kisses his wrist, weary but comforted, as McCree begins to clean him up, each touch as gentle as the last.


	3. Genyatta, corsets,  closet sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:**  Genyatta  
>  **Warnings:** corsets, closet sex, against a wall, semi-public sex, valve

Weeks of stake outs and intel have led to this: Zenyatta and Genji working undercover at a shady nightclub in the heart of Numbani. It hadn't been an easy place to infiltrate, upscale and invitation only. The worst part is that it's _just_ another shady nightclub, omnic-focused but legal.

The employee uniform left little to the imagination; the corset cinched around Zenyatta's frame is functionally useless but well-suited for titillation. Fingerprints mar almost every inch of his chrome from his handsier patrons. Genji isn't much better off, and it should be ridiculous, dolled up like he is in full armor, a double-jumping ninja assassin in a candy pink maid uniform. His student, his Genji, who pulled him into a dingy closet backstage and dropped to his knees before him, tongue mapping the seams his modesty panel.

"Genji...now?" His voice is low, shocked more than angered. The soft hiss of Genji's helmet sliding up and away silences all protest.

Zenyatta would swallow, if he were a human, bite his lips. Instead, he releases a burst of steam.  Genji laughs, one hard, punched out noise pressed into his metal, and Zenyatta shakes his head, hiking up his skirt for a better look. His student fumbles with his panel before it finally slides away. Zenyatta’s half-hard cock catches against his lips, and Genji sucks it down easily, moan muffled against his chassis.

"You were not the only one affected," Zenyatta sighs, fingers tentatively settling on his helmet, wishing his could grab a fistful of green hair and watch Genji's eyes glaze beautifully.

His student works his mouth with sloppy insistence, nothing like the slow drags they could enjoy in the comfort of their room back at the watchpoint. The thin walls muffle the thrum of the bass-heavy music, and the sounds of people passing has him on edge, twitching against that suckling mouth with a heat he didn't know he possessed.

The door doesn't lock; any moment could be one of discovery. Genji locks his gaze on Zenyatta’s array as he swallows his cock in long, eager pulls, the seams of it glowing now, online and releasing little pulses of pre directly down his student's throat.

"S-stand," Zenyatta tugs at his antennae.

Genji grins and gives one last lap at his cock before standing, a quick, jerky motion, more needy than he appears. His eyes darken as Zenyatta turns around and plants his hands on the door, angling his hips back.

“Master—”

He needs no order. Hands as hungry as his mouth find the slit beneath his skirts, teasing until the omnic trembles.

A depressurizing hiss, a wet, sweltering weight slaps against his backside.

“Hurry—” Zenyatta whirs.

One hand fists in the corset ties, the other twists into the bundle of tender wires at his nape. Genji presses his cock against him, the angle wrong, unable to seat himself. Soft, heady groans, exasperated, but his student doesn't move his hands, rutting fruitlessly.

“Bend over. I can’t fit like this,” Genji groans into his spine, hot breath along his red wires.

“Do not t-tease me.”

Zenyatta shifts his ass higher, another bout of steam momentarily blinding him, distracting as Genji pushes, pushes and _catches_. He forgets himself, chirping as Genji tugs him back on his cock, fully sheathed in an instant.

Zenyatta clutches his throat to keep quiet, synth singing beneath his hand. The wet smack of their bodies is an irregularity poorly hidden by the quiet music outside. Genji tugs the corset’s ties like he's taming him, breaking him in with deep, grinding thrusts that rock him on the balls of his feet.

All the while his student murmurs his name, curling over him, lips replacing hands at his wires, biting and mouthing at their connectors, fizzling what little proper thought Zenyatta has left. Errors ping on his system, unimportant, not even secondary to his student snaking a hand around his hip and finding his cock, not stroking but as a channel for Zenyatta to slide into as Genji fucks him.

He reaches behind him, clutching the side of Genji's face, all he can do while his processes crash and mind blanks, able only to feel the first pulse of his student inside him and swear his name.


	4. McCree/Zenyatta, wallsex, creampie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:**  McCree/Zenyatta  
>  **Warnings:** creampie, against a wall, valve

****Nothing's better than a good, hard fuck after brushing knuckles with death. That's always been Jesse's philosophy, learned it young, kept it close to his heart when everything else softened from his anger to his belly.

The payload's secure, half their team only alive and breathin' thanks to a helluva gold light at the perfect time. He still feels the heat of the explosion, the tips of his hair singed, the smell of ozone pungent and lingering in his nose.

Zenyatta's off to the side, helping Lena onto the evac jet; even with half his arm blown off, he looks put together, serene as a damn painting of the mountains he hails from. Jesse licks his lips, his swagger just a little quicker than normal, a tension locked between his shoulders.

He weaves his metal arm around Zenyatta, ushering him into the jet, a cant of the omnic's head earned, lights blinking.

"You are well, Jesse?"

Oh, how sweet on him he is. Jesse. _Jesse_ , in that low, warm voice that tickles up his spine.

"I do got somethin' of a problem I hope you'll help me with. Somethin' urgent."

Jesse can read Zenyatta's emotions as easily as if he had eyes to widen, the hand rising to touch his gold chrome shocked as Jesse's hand slips down his back. He feels Zenyatta’s chassis through his tattered pants, looking as innocent as all get out from the front where most of their teammates sit and wait for lift off.

"Then let us proceed to the med bay immediately."

Not one of their teammates bats an eye as Jesse all but hauls Zenyatta away, not knowing how tight Jesse's wrapped his arm around the omnic, his steps quickened with a barely concealed urgency.

* * *

"Jesse—"

Each time it's music to his ears, especially with the hot, clamoring slaps of their bodies singing together. There're tricks to giving it to an omnic good and proper, but Jesse’s a quick learner. Zenyatta makes it easy too, responding with a chirp or twitch when Jesse finds his wires and tugs, gasping when he flutters his fingers against the cute, bright sensor above where Jesse's slotting inside him. He even likes how Zenyatta's an arm down, makes him feel big and powerful, like he's really returnin’ the favor after he's given Jesse so much. It's the reason he hoists him up and takes the monk against the wall, those slim, synthetic legs wrapping around him so tightly it shortens his breath.

"Gettin' close?" Jesse drawls, harsh and deep.

He's in his own element, pistoning his hips like the only thing keepin' him on this green earth is sinkin' nice and hard into the warm, ripe clutch of the omnic writhing on his cock, pleasure bursting behind his eyes. All those signals of a hot-blooded man alive another day, spreadin' his seed in the weirdest of places. Not that he minds. Not at all.

"Y-yes, I—"

"S'alright, sugar. You can come whenever you like."

Jesse wishes he could smoke while he's fucking him, enjoy two of life's great pleasures at once, and maybe he will when the edge's off, when he can think of more than shootin' his load into the sweetest man who'd ever given him the time of day. Probably gives lots of others the time of day, come to think of it, which only makes his cock throb dangerously, eager to be one of them.

Like clockwork, a few harsh thrusts have the omnic twisting, clenching around him like the finest fleshlight, only one attached to sweet noises and a steaming body, as lively as any human he'd ever fucked. Romantic even in this, the monk's truly something else, something he wants to claim right the fuck now, with the adrenalin pounding and setting his nerves alight.

He shoves hard, jostling him into the wall, belt buckle and spurs jangling as his balls contract and he's swearing into the side of Zenyatta's head, the omnic's arm curling around his neck and holding on as the cowboy fills him up like he's been needing for a while now.

The omnic stills, array nearly dim enough to be out, too low energy for such antics after the light show earlier, but he can't find it in himself to be upset, not when his systems restart and he's still clenching and twitching around him, saying Jesse's name soft and sweet while his synth hiccups.

"Lemme look at ya."

He'll never tire of his cum painted translucent over that pretty, teal interior, and he shoves his fingers inside him, a hot, sticky mess following as he draws out, twisting around those sensors, slow and easy, the omnic shaking even still.

"So much?" It would be teasing if Zenyatta didn't sound a second from powering down.

"Guess I need to go again if yer feeling so cheeky."

He scissors his fingers, the omnic twitching, lights glowing before they short out. Jesse catches Zenyatta right before he collapses, the monk laughing silently as the cowboy scoops him into his arms.


	5. Lucio/Zenyatta, overstimulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Lucio/Zenyatta  
>  **Warnings:** overstimulation, trans Lucio (the word clit used), scissoring

****Lúcio never saw omnics as nice as Zen growing up. The bots around the favela were more like the ones in those old 1970s films, clunky and stunted, pieced together with rusted parts until they hardly resembled their original models.

Even twenty years running, dented and scuffed from years of wandering, Zenyatta's something to behold. There’s a beauty to him, a serenity in motion and words. The monk understood when they talked about the injustices of the world. Their pasts, loss of family, the need to set things right.

They're kindred, and it's something Lúcio admits late one night while Zenyatta hovers in the kitchen and brews him tea.

"I wanna be like you, y’know. Inspire others to rise up, be their best self."

Zenyatta stills, clasping his own mug between his hands, only for the warm, tactile pleasure of it.

"I should say the same of you," he replies, orbs circling his shoulders, drawing Lúcio's gaze. It had been a long, exhausting day. "Reaching so many with your music, spreading hope. The power you possess can change the world."

Lúcio clicks his tongue, leaning over the counter with a sigh.

"Feels so fruitless, some days. Gettin' dismissed as only a celebrity, juggling all this freedom fightin'. I'm tired, Zen. It's sinkin' under my skin."

A warmth settles over his skin. Lúcio remembers the taste of his mother's cooking. He opens his eyes to an orb hovering over him.

"Rest is necessary. Perhaps it is prudent to follow the advice you so readily give others."

"Oh, haha. You're one to talk. I remember how banged up you were after that Numbani mission."

Zenyatta hums. "Perhaps we should both keep each other in line, then."

Lúcio sips his tea, savoring the hint of honey and cloves.

"It's a deal."

-

They spend most of their time in the med bay working, but Lúcio follows Zenyatta to meditate on more than one occasion. It's a hard thing for Lúcio to master. He feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin if he sits still for too long, but with eyes closed and the sound of chiming orbs, he can almost find something like peace.

"You have joined us a lot lately, Lúcio," Genji says, his modulated voice tinged with mirth.

"Yeah? It's relaxing. Hard to find peace these days."

The cyborg taps his chin; Lúcio can almost see him smiling under his helmet.

"Searching for peace...I suppose that is part of it."

"What does that mean?" Lúcio leans in, narrowing his eyes at the man seated next to him.

"Hm. I am sure you will understand soon enough."

"You serious? Genji. _Genji_."

The cyborg upturns his palms on his thighs and hums. Like master like student.

"What does that _mean_?"

Genji laughs and shakes his head, and Lúcio wonders what Genji's problem is, vaguing him like that.

-

He realizes what Genji was getting at two weeks later. Zenyatta wanders around half-naked most days, and Lúcio’s caught himself staring at his back once or twice, spotting couplings his father had used, remembering how to assemble sections of the omnic from watching the man retrofit spare parts.

It's intellectual curiosity that draws him. An easy explanation, one he doesn't have to think about. Then he sees Zenyatta naked in the med bay, reclined on the examination table as Brigitte performs a systems check.

Yeah, he's surely dragging his eyes over every part of the omnic because he's curious. Only a mechanic's hunger draws him to that supple slice of material between his legs, matching just where its human counterpart would be.

Lúcio misses the way Zenyatta's array flickers as the door slides shut behind him.

-

"It is never my intention to pry," Zenyatta says.

Lúcio's hands tighten around his fingers, holo-driver poised above Zenyatta's broken wrist.

"You have been staring. Is something on your mind?"

A flush burns along Lúcio’s cheeks.

"I, uh. I'm not sure this is the place for this." Little more than a mumble. He tightens the component and releases Zenyatta quickly. "All fixed."

"Thank you.” Zenyatta rubs his wrist, testing its movement. “My apologies. It is just..."

Lúcio swallows. Zenyatta can sense things, sometimes. Not quite auras, but hints of emotion, gleaned from studying humans so intently, or maybe it's even less knowable than that. An intuition granted to those who can channel the Iris.

"I believe that whatever you are struggling to express, I too share that struggle.” Zenyatta slides his hand over Lúcio's, repeating the squeeze he had given the omnic moments ago. “And that feeling."

"Man, that is _so_ vague." He finally looks into Zenyatta's array and smiles. "You probably already know then, right? That I like you? You sayin' you like me too?"

"I believe that is obvious."

"Well, sometimes people want to hear it out loud, y’know?"

Zenyatta’s hum is such a comfort after spending so much time with him.

"It had not occurred to me. I hope it did not cause you too much distress."

"You willin' to take responsibility then?"

-

Lúcio doesn't worry about the mess in his room. He'd seen Zenyatta's on occasion, littered with ancient books and holopads that are at least as old as him. He didn't bring Zenyatta in here to hang out, anyway, though now that he has him he’s suddenly nervous.

"Is this...too soon?" His gaze is level with Zenyatta's chest when he asks, their hands still clasped together. Zenyatta's palm thrums against his own.

"Only if you would like to take it slow. I am open to proceeding."

"Never would've pegged you for the type to get busy on the first date."

"Having my wrist repaired is not what I would consider a date."

Lúcio nudges into him, chuckling. Zenyatta grasps his free hand, lifting both to their chests between them. He leans down, and Lúcio closes his eyes. The metal against his lips is pleasantly warm and smooth. There’s a strange, electric sensation, less shocking and more a soft, pleasant vibration.

Zenyatta speaks, the sound originating from beneath his mouth. He never knew the location of his synth until now.

"I admit, this has more of an impact when both participants are synthetic."

"I like it. Though I have a few things that might be more effective."

They undress each other, slow and explorative. One kiss turns into another, hands sliding from face to neck. Zenyatta glides his fingers through the small patch of dark hair on Lúcio’s chest and follows the divot to his belly, and the man twists away with a laugh. He's sure his dad would roll over in his grave if he knew he was using his robotics knowledge to tease Zenyatta, finding and dragging his hands over the hidden bundled sensors tucked into his body.

They stumble deeper into the room, Zenyatta urging Lúcio onto the mattress before gliding to his knees. With care, he removes Lúcio’s skates, traces up his prosthetic legs, wondering at their intricacy. Here, they are the same. Lúcio shivers. He cups Zenyatta's cheek, stroking his thumb across warm chrome.

"C'mon. Plenty of room up here."

Zenyatta crawls on top of him, long, smooth fingers greedy. Tracing along his neck, his pulse, down his chest, caressing his scars, circling his nipples until they peak, begging without words.

Lúcio returns the favor, digging his fingers into the dark inner workings of Zenyatta's chassis, releasing his modesty panel with a few deft presses.

Zenyatta's array flares.

"You...oh..."

Fingers along his valve quiets him, at least for a moment. Just until Lúcio slicks his fingers from Zenyatta's reserves, dragging it along the gleaming sensor just above it.

"It seems we have another thing in common," Zenyatta murmurs, sliding his fingers around Lúcio's clit, swollen and fully exposed. The omnic mimics Lúcio’s touch before reaching between the human’s thighs. His clit jerks against his hand when Zenyatta grasps it, stroking with forefinger and thumb. The hot, wet drag has Lúcio staring down his body and biting his lower lip, arching, aching for it. Zenyatta’s attention flickers between Lúcio’s face and his body, stroking gently, circling his fingers around it, a wet, catching twist that has Lúcio on edge so embarrassingly quick.

“W-wait. I wanna do it with you.”

Zenyatta tilts his head.

“Come ‘ere.”

There’s a lot of adjusting, quiet groans and laughter, but at last they’re on their sides facing one another, legs interlocked, the soft clack of metal and prosthesis sliding together.

“Angle up just a bit. Yeah, there—”

Zenyatta’s sensor drags against Lúcio’s clit, the omnic leaking enough for the both of them, a slick catch that eases their motions, each press coating their inner thighs as they grind against each other. He had never imagined Zenyatta would look so good flush against him, would be so skilled at plucking his nipples and rolling his hips in time with his own, off kilter enough to drive him faster, harder, the gentle paps of skin of chrome maddening and obscene.

Their legs lock and clench as Lúcio's quiet swears pick up, Zenyatta's quieter, throaty sounds echoing beneath his own, sounds that’d be buzzing in his mind long after they’re done.

Catching and dragging, molten hot, almost like a tease. A suckling mouth or eager hand would have Lúcio at his end already, but like this, gasps and steam erupting in the scant space between them, it's almost preferable. Lúcio can lose himself in this, in the perfect motions of Zenyatta, his array near blinding, light refracting in the steam.

The omnic buckles, bearing down on him, hands sealing around Lúcio's hips and holding tight, and Lúcio cries out, clit throbbing, pummeling over the edge with little warning. He bites Zenyatta's neck, mewling into the blood warm metal, hips jerking unsteadily, unable to keep up with the harried, snapping motions of the omnic.

"T-too much?"

"Don't you dare stop–!!"

There's something like a laugh, but he's not sure, writhing and trapped as Zenyatta tears his mind apart, the sensation almost pain, but he can't dream of stopping. Not when Zenyatta locks up, spasming, fingers tightening and loosening on his hips while a rush of fluids floods between them, hot and thick. If anything, it speeds Zenyatta's thrusts, the drag frictionless and sweet. Lúcio might be coming again, boneless and weak as he rides Zenyatta's aftershocks, so swollen and puffy it steals his breath.

"We..." He swallows, throat raspy. "We should stop." Lúcio lifts his hands before Zenyatta has time to worry. "I'm cramping."

The omnic laughs, unhitching his legs. Lúcio stretches out with a soft, satisfied groan. Zenyatta doesn't let him alone for long, hands massaging his tense thighs with smooth, circular motions.

"One of the perks of being synthetic, I suppose."

Lúcio kisses him on his peculiar mouth.

"I can't wait to see the others."


	6. McHanzo, gloryhole, aphrodisiac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** McCree/Hanzo  
>  **Warnings:** gloryhole, aphrodisiac, unestablished relationship, past public use mentions  

****It is one of Hanzo's great weaknesses.

A rouge still colors his cheeks each and every time he thinks of it, especially during periods where he can do nothing _but_ think, his environment too dangerous for his singular indulgence. It had been his only reprieve beneath the watchful eye of the Shimada clan. Only when his desires became unbearable, when the clan questioned his reliance on nightly sake. Hanzo would tie up his hair and smooth his bangs back, don normal clothes that made him just one of thousands on the streets of Hanamura.

There were no serious dalliances. His partners couldn't know who he was. He slipped away hours after dusk, a tawdry use of his clan’s skills. Each time the location was different, a bar, a nightclub. Most places had what he was looking for, sickening. Thrilling.

In the dead of night, listening to the thrumming music muffled through the walls, he dropped to his knees on a grimy bathroom floor. There was no disguising why he was here, the soft moans of patrons around him fattening his cock against his worn slacks, the cheap fabric clinging like a second skin.

They can only see his mouth, lips pursed and full. Presented. He never waited long. They didn't care who he was, would never know the person licking the length of their cock with a whimpered moan was scion to the city's clan. Like this, he was just another wet, warm hole that slaked their salacious urges, a nameless slut who didn't care to know them or their faces.

Years later, at the onset of a changing world, thousands of miles away from his home and awash with grief and devastating, terrifying hope, Hanzo needs it. The one thing that let him be used, an object that submitted and received without question. Several, wonderful minutes of mindlessness, more if he was lucky, if another replaced the last sated cock, growling his thanks through the thin plastic barrier.

Lost in his mind, trapped between need and peace, Hanzo stumbles upon it in the watchpoint's defunct east wing.

It is discreet, in the last stall in the corner, perfectly round, even fitted with leather lining.

Hanzo doesn't sleep that night or the next, only stares, drunk and delirious, at the ceiling.

The third night breaks him. He has to know if someone uses it. Perhaps it is only a relic of bygone days, overlooked when Overwatch reclaimed the base.

The floor is clean. Dust rests on the paper dispensers. He kneels in seiza. The hole sits perfectly level with his mouth. For hours, he lingers, imagination potent, flushed and lost in memories, cock tenting his gi. It's almost as good, he thinks, when he can bare it no longer. When he reaches into his robes and brings himself off with a few, slow jerks. Hanzo rises unsteadily, leaning on the metal stall, catching his breath. He spots his reflection in the mirror as he departs, hair tousled, lips swollen from his teeth, flush prominent on his cheeks, stubborn and unfading.

It's enough, he tells himself.

* * *

It becomes his only outlet once more. Safer, at least, than it had been. He's older, and the act less destructive, a harmless fantasy. Perhaps Genji would be proud of him for overcoming such a habit, as if he had ever told another soul about his shame.

He sits beneath the blinding, sterile lights and closes his eyes, imagines a thrumming baseline in another room, a hot, hard thing in his mouth. Sometimes they would not move an inch, made Hanzo do all the work, and he did, hands fisted into the cloth at his thighs, moaning, breathing through the ache in his jaw, the stretch of his throat as he swallowed and sucked.

He never sees a single soul in that restroom. It is his sanctuary, as hidden as his desire.

* * *

One night, two cups of sake empty and feeling the need like lips against his nape, an idea takes form.

Hanzo had held onto them from the old days. Why, he could not say, the only thing that had been gifted to him through the wall that was not of flesh and sweat.

Blue pills, perfectly round. They look like candy, innocuous.

"One of these, baby ‘n you'll be moaning all night."

There has been a lull in missions of late, halted for a U.N. meeting that would decide the fate of the newly reformed Overwatch.

The lack of action bites beneath his skin, sinks into his bones.

He washes a pill down with a final swig of sake.

* * *

Hanzo doesn't feel anything until he's seated in the dusty stall. It's more than the location, the position, doesn't shake him to his core so easily. The shameful acts he performed glow in his mind, tighten his nipples; his cock is a hard, straining line against fundoshi. Everything feels close. Hot. He drags rough hands over his chest, catching the hardened peaks of his nipples, giving one a harsh squeeze that makes him bite off a moan.

He never really knows if he has privacy here, but it is almost preferred. He floats in the buzz, the warm, heady prickle, absently uncapping the small vial he keeps for when a hand on his cock is not enough. Hanzo never dared to offer up anything other than hands and mouth, afraid, always afraid, even nameless and faceless. He tugs open his gi, loosening his fundoshi in a few, quick pulls, leaning forward, the position comfortable enough to wiggle his slickened fingers between his cheeks.

A place no one has ever touched besides himself, but he had been thorough in his exploration. Only fingers when he was young, afraid of even that. Later, on the run, with toys, whatever throwaway thing he could find when he could trust no one and hated himself more than he could bear.

He slides a finger inside now, not curling, not yet, enjoying the pleasant almost burn of it, more tender with the drug in his blood, a mild yet persistent pulse. A little warmer, plusher, his tongue swells in his mouth, another finger sliding in with the first. He sighs, pressing and curling, just grazing the spot that he really wants. The tease is a part of it. At any moment, a cock could press through the hole, and his own pleasure would become secondary, unable to finger himself properly when his mouth was rudely claimed by a nameless patron.

The door to the restroom opens.

Hanzo freezes mid-moan. At least, he hopes he does. The silence is deafening, his heart slamming so hard he wonders if he's having a reaction, that he'll have to be dragged to med bay aroused and seizing, all from an old pill he had so thoughtlessly taken from a stranger.

Footsteps. Hanzo couldn't move if he wanted to, fingers lodged in his body, shivering around them, a vile notion rising to the forefront of this insanity.

A jingle to each step. Sweat rolls down the side of his throat. He could recognize that sound, that gait anywhere. Tall and brutish and Genji's best friend. That easy, lopsided smile, his smoky words. The stall adjacent swings open with a creak. Hanzo’s trapped completely, aching, wanting, mouth half-opened like so many years ago.

The stalls don't touch the floor, revealing his presence. Incriminating him. The clatter of metal, a belt unbuckling, the hum of a zipper.

Hanzo wonders if he's hallucinating the huge, veined cock slotting through the hole inches from his face. The circumcision scar a few inches down his cock shocks him, the rest a bright, ruddy red, the faintest hint of moisture beading at its tip. His balls beneath, hairy and round, tight already. Who would enter the restroom in such a state? Who, unless they knew someone would be here and waiting? Did he capture Hanzo on another occasion, moaning into the emptiness of the restroom while he twisted his fingers inside him and yearned?

Faced with the real possibility of again being used and hidden at once, he bites on his tongue. McCree might know. Could he look that man in the eye and not think of the time he sucked down his cock like a prized offering, savoring each inch?

He can smell it, sweat and salt and leather. It throbs while he watches, stupid and shaking, breath warming it. Dazed, helpless, burning through, Hanzo stands. He turns around. He lets his pants drop to his knees, rucks his gi up to rest along his sweaty lower back. Hanzo bends forward, braces one, trembling hand on the stall in front of him, the other fishing between his legs, fingers stupid and bumbling, working himself loose an inch from the cock that waits for service.

The silence is unbearable. Nothing but their breathing and the quiet squelch of him fucking himself open.

Perhaps Hanzo doesn't give himself enough time, but he cannot handle the tension, the fire burning through his nerves, needing escape.

The first touch to McCree's cock is clumsy, but the man hisses even so, low and delicious. He angles his ass up, presses it against his hole. Would McCree fuck him rudely, or would he expect Hanzo to do all the work, milking his cock while he watched and enjoyed?

None of that matters if Hanzo doesn’t square up and take it. He breathes out, a shaky, pathetic sound, a facsimile of relaxation, and presses back, holding McCree’s cock at its base to keep it steady.

There's resistance, of course there is. How could there not be, with McCree's huge cock, with Hanzo’s relative inexperience. He's only breached an inch or so before his hips stagger, stop. His heart races, the tip of it just brushing his prostate, weakening him.

"Thassit, darlin'. Nice 'n slow."

It batters him. Burns every last thought he could have with embarrassing swiftness. He slathers more lube on McCree's cock with sloppy, shaking fingers and then bears down, an ache settling so deliciously in his body he nearly cries. Perhaps he could've had this before if he hadn't been such a coward, but no time to berate himself now, not when McCree eases forward. Hanzo swallows the last inch, both groaning, the cowboy even louder than him.

"You feel so good. Where you been this whole time? Shiiit."

Hanzo’s cock hangs heavy and fat between his legs, pre dripping onto the tile. He's afraid to touch his own stomach, wondering if he'd be able to feel McCree through his skin.

"Fuck me, won't ya..."

Hanzo quakes. The words do as much as the cock lodged within, especially as he tugs away, the wet burn ricocheting through his body, battering him like an assailant. He won't be able to walk tomorrow, might have to limp from the restroom that very night. How would he even escape? Would he have to wait for McCree to zip up and depart, put himself together, catch his breath on his knees, wait for his heart to slow and his body to stop shaking?

He fucks back on McCree's cock, bracing on the stall to lead his thrusts, the shift and pull going butter smooth the longer he moves, eyes rolling back in his head.

"Jus like that. Oh, babe, you're doing things to me."

Hanzo chokes, catches the sound in his throat, the deep, impossible ache building with the tension in his skull. He would burst, spill all over his clothes, sooner rather than later, a useless mess from nothing but a cock lodged in his ass, one he works over and suckles with nary a thing but the cowboy's encouragement drifting over the stall.


	7. Concept!Mercy/Human!Zenyatta, stockings, sixty-nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Concept!Mercy/Human!Zenyatta  
>  **Warnings:** stockings, sixty-nine, oral, implied anal, trans character, anal fingering  
>  **Note:** Concept!Mercy goes by Markus in this and is trans (no PIV)

****Markus has been staring for several minutes, and Zenyatta smiles.

After their first kiss, a stolen press against the side of Zenyatta’s mouth, the monk had thought the careful dance between them complete, but not so. The tension, nervous and quiet, had grown, a holding pattern stubbornly maintained days after the confession.

They should talk. It would be easy to broach the subject, barring a singular detail.

Markus is so very fun to tease.

“What is this?”  The doctor’s voice is careful. So is the hand tracing the edge of what holds his interest. Just above the hem of Zenyatta’s saffron pants is a whisper of black fabric, translucent and skin-tight.

“Would you like to see?”

Zenyatta faces him, smile undeniable. Gently, with adorable stubbornness, Markus continues tracing the lip of the nearly hidden black stockings. The monk had carefully eased into them an hour before, the elastic clutched just above his hips, the color stark against clothes and skin, just visible enough to notice, if you were looking.

He stares up at Markus, captures his wandering hands, much larger than his own. The doctor flushes, but the grip around Zenyatta’s waist tightens, urging him closer.

“You’re teasing me,” Markus murmurs.

“Not so. I have every intention of following through if you are...agreeable.”

* * *

Bravery wavers in Markus’ eyes when Zenyatta reclines on the bed in his humble room. He spreads his legs, drawing his hands over his thighs, relishing in the texture, watching Markus as he shows himself off.

One feels powerful, coveted, beneath such a gaze.

“I had not really expected…” Markus loses his thought as Zenyatta traces over his inner thighs, plucking the edge of black panties, the shape of his cock just visible within.

He’s not hard, not yet, but as Markus’ draws near, steps stilted, knees hitting the edge of the bed while he reaches for him, a hot rush twists through his belly.

“What is it you desire, Markus?”

The doctor’s jaw works. He sidles onto the bed, hunching to make himself small in the limited space, or, perhaps, angling for a better view.

“Whatever you will give me.”

The monk makes a soft, considering sound, fingers never ceasing their patterns along the stockings, distracting like a hypnotist’s pendulum.

“And if I desire you to take?”

Zenyatta’s voice hitches as Markus palms his cock, the fabric threatening to run beneath the huge, warm hand.

“I will take,” his voice wavers, but his gaze doesn’t drop. Goosebumps prickle along Zenyatta’s neck.

He guides Markus by the wrist, directs his movements as he gropes and drags along his cock, swiftly fattening beneath the touch. He moves of his own volition after that, eyes roaming as hungrily as his hands. Zenyatta watches him, eyes thinned, smile balanced on his lips, wavering as Markus hunkers down and mouths at his cock, dampening the stockings and panties.

"Tear it," Zenyatta whispers, so low Markus barely hears it. He looks up from his spot between the monk's thighs, eyes shining, disbelief morphing into something dark and unreadable.

Markus’ fingers tremble, but he's careful too, pinching the fabric without catching skin. Zenyatta can't help his gasp as the fabric tears with a deafening sound. His fingers find Markus' tight, beautiful curls as he descends, mouthing the freed expanse of his inner thighs, tonguing the edge of his panties, the skin hot and feverish.

Strong, beautiful and kind, giving even in this, and Zenyatta’s heart soars. Markus' eyes find his as he shakily tongues at his cock, his face flushed but determined. The monk tosses his head back, arching, wanting.

"You are good at this," Zenyatta says, fingers buried in his hair. Not leading, still teasing as Markus buries his face and mouths at him through his panties. Perhaps afraid to do more without permission. So he gives it.

"I want more, please." His smiles draws wicked. "Unless you want me to come in my panties."

Markus’ eyes widen, his mouth parting so prettily. He works his jaw, looking helplessly between Zenyatta’s lower body and his face.

"You are crueler than you look," Markus mumbles. He hikes Zenyatta's thighs up, wraps his arms around them and tugs him forward, shoving his panties aside without fanfare.

"I am sorry, my love," Zenyatta replies breathlessly, wiggling in the new, intimate position, trapped by Markus' slackened mouth hovering over his cock, hard and aching. "You are so very cute like this."

Markus buries his face, suckles on the tip of Zen's cock before swallowing a few more inches. Zenyatta wraps his legs around Markus' shoulders, urging him faster, deeper, but there is no rushing the gentle, hesitant motions of his partner. Markus' eyes take on a shine he's never seen before, nostrils flaring, full, beautiful lips growing swollen as he sucks and kisses. His hips begin to slowly rock into the mattress beneath him, and Zenyatta whimpers. Markus, so wanting that he ruts without hope of being touched, even as he swallows Zenyatta down, each time deeper, opening to him more and more.

"M-markus. Please. I want to touch you."

The doctor pulls off him, panting and kissing his cock, his inner thigh, the line of saliva and pre following those sweet lips.

"You," he swallows. "Are you sure?"

Zenyatta cups his face in his hands, drawing his thumb over that pursed lower lip.

"I _have_ been cruel. Please, I desire nothing more."

* * *

He wonders if it hurts the larger man's pride, but Zenyatta cannot think of any word better for Markus than adorable.

The young doctor holds himself so carefully, his thighs bracketing Zenyatta's mouth. His chest is the only thing that makes contact with his body, his hands grasping and twisting in the sheets as Zenyatta kisses between his legs. His own cock twitches and leaks between his legs, forgotten, for a moment, as Zenyatta takes his first swipes at Markus' clit, already long and swollen.

Markus’ thighs quake around his head, and Zenyatta grasps and squeezes them, presses into the hot mess of him, his sweet, heady smell, the hair framing it all, thick and curled. He wishes to tell Markus how beautiful he is, how sweet and perfect, but he thinks the man would prefer his mouth to do other things with how he quakes above him, twitching and jerking at each small press of Zenyatta's mouth. He spreads Markus with his hands, smiling at his gasp, thumb pressing the edge of his clit, admiring for a moment before he arches to claim it.

He suckles to the base in a single drag, fluttering his tongue against its underside. How pretty the doctor's swears are, but Zenyatta can't focus on that for long. Markus' tongue descends on him, hot and eager, his hand enveloping his cock and keeping it upright as he sucks. Zenyatta moans around his clit, lapping while it’s trapped in the warmth of his mouth. The doctor's thighs tighten against the sides of his head, dizzying him, the air humid and filled with Markus' smell, his mouth caught and used as the man grinds against his tongue. Zenyatta presents it, lets himself be used, reveling in the crumbling of Markus’ restraint, forcing his head into the pillows as he chases Zenyatta's mouth. One, two, three hard thrusts, and his clit throbs and Markus whines, loud and wounded, Zenyatta's cock aching at the sound, vision soft at its edges.

The first draw of uninhibited air blackens his vision, a high settling hard in his mind, mouth wet and fluttering as he gasps.

"Z-zen..."

Unbelievably quick for a man of his stature, he scrambles down Zenyatta's body, swallowing his cock to the base, fingers spearing him open with what must be little more than spit or a smear of lube. There's a burn, a delicious, heated drag, tempered by that eager, inexperienced mouth. Zenyatta grabs the hand at his hip and holds on, swearing once, grinding onto his fingers, a second one finding its way next to the first. He wants to laugh, thinking of Markus knowing just how to  curl and twist his fingers against his prostate, how did he learn such a thing, but such teasing is lost to him as orgasm throbs through him on those same fingers, not even time to warn Markus to pull back. He cums, and Markus swallows around him, the vibrations from his quiet groaning making his eyes cross. Zenyatta's stockings run as he thrashes, each throb delicious and thick until it's too much.

"Please, M-markus—!"

And when Markus pulls off him with a shaky, triumphant laugh and a kiss to his trembling inner thigh, Zenyatta can't help but smile in turn.

"Payback," Markus murmurs roughly into his thigh, still shifting his fingers inside him, trapping Zenyatta, helpless against them.

"You have made a mess of me. Is it not enough?"

Markus, cheeks reddened and eyes glazed, attempts to look considering and fails miserably.

"I think...I would like to fuck you properly."

Zenyatta bites his lip, gasping as the fingers inside curl and spread him, preparing him for something much bigger, something like the thick prosthesis Markus hurriedly retrieves from his nightstand.

"On your stomach, Zenyatta," Markus commands.

The monk cannot move fast enough, the sounds of Markus' harness snapping into place making him greedy all over again.

This is what he deserves, surely, for teasing the sweet doctor.


	8. Hunter!McCree/Sanzang!Zenyatta/Oni!Genyatta, double penetration, oral, sloppy seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Hunter!McCree/Sanzang!Zenyatta/Oni!Genji  
>  **Warnings:** double penetration, dirty talk, overstimulation, sloppy seconds, oral

A hunter's life is a lonely one. It wears on him some days, keeping everyone outta arm’s reach. Maybe that’s why when McCree’s offered a soft greeting and a softer smile, he breathes a little easier.

Religion does not an honest man make. Still, gut decisions are necessary, do or die, so to speak. They're at the edge of civilization, and the monk's the only one who doesn’t avert his gaze when McCree announces his intended bounty in the small, derelict tavern.

He’s draped in finery, silk robes and a crown that frames his oval face, but it’s the monk’s eyes that truly captivate, deep brown and thin, red marks trailing his lashes, signs of mastery. He plucks the glass from the hunter's fist and takes a long, unbroken pull.

A pact made.

* * *

They leave at dawn.

The hunter nurses a gentle headache, but the monk doesn't have a hair out of place, though it's not like he has any. McCree glimpses the monk's nape as his collars shift, a change of his chassis' color suggesting a hairline where none would ever grow.

The hunter coughs and turns away, eying the road.

"You sure about this plan?"

The monk, Zenyatta, walks next to him, but even when he strains McCree cannot hear his footfalls.

"Demons are drawn to sources of power. Shambali can channel such a source, if needed."

"So we put you out on a platter. That it?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Mysterious, ain't ya?”

"I have been told it is part of my charm."

McCree smiles, fishing out a cigarillo that flares in the faint gloom.

"Well, I suppose there are worse things to be."

So it goes for a few days, long, introspective silences, eating meals and sharing tales, smoking and watching the monk meditate, still as marble in the moonshine.

Until the fourth night. They reach a clearing in a steep valley, lost in the mountain's umbra. It's dark well before the sun sets, but the monk's orbs provide enough light to set up camp. Zenyatta folds into lotus in front of the newly kindled fire, eyes slipping shut. McCree watches the shadows dance upon his face, catch in the perfect red lines of his eyes.

There is no one until there is someone.

A humanoid shape stands behind the monk, nearly eclipsed by darkness.

"Thought I smelled something interesting."

Gruesome, the hunter thinks, with blinding red eyes and a huge, toothsome sneer. The demon takes a step closer, revealing his face as a mask.

Peacekeeper's in McCree’s grip before he can think to draw it.

The demon leans over the monk, still unmoved, the picture of ease. There's a few, strange wuffs; the demon's _smelling_ Zenyatta, long pulls of air through his mask.

He traces his nails along the monk’s jawline, claws dimpling his face.

"Oh, exquisite." His thumb presses Zenyatta's lower lip, parting them, and only then does the monk open his eyes, lost in the flicker of the fire. Unafraid, even now. "You are most fortunate. Marriage instead of death."

"Quite presumptuous, aren't you," the monk says. "You have not my name or my own offer."

The demon laughs once.

"It is rare to find one so brazen." His mask tips to McCree. "Rarer still I find two."

The hunter isn’t sure if he imagines the faint awe in the demon's voice.

“Speak then. I do not wish to postpone our union a moment longer.”

* * *

 

It is shockingly easy to convince the demon to surrender. McCree wonders if the monk’s calming aura extends to all in his presence, even a creature as vile as a demon. The terms aren’t quite what he expected, especially from a monk, but such a pact has ancient origins, enough energy to keep a demon slaked for a time. Better than hopin’ for a lucky shot; Genji moves like rippling flames, an illusion made real.

Zenyatta slips from his robes, the finery crumpling around his bare feet. His chassis shines in the fire's light, thick in the chest before narrowing abruptly after its curve, enough that McCree could wrap his hands around his waist completely. And ain't that a thought as he unbuckles his own belt, heat pooling low in his guts.

"On your knees, monk," Genji commands. His face unmasked, scarred yet fine, twists into arrogance, a princeling ordering under the authority of another.

Zenyatta doesn't seem to mind, kneeling upon his robes and awaiting command.

"Hunter, to me. Let us see how good our monk is with his mouth when he cannot speak."

McCree's confident in hand to hand. Though a pact made with a demon cannot be broken, his nerves are alight, fingers itching for a weapon even in the moment's heat. He stands next to the demon, not taking his eyes from Genji until he feels a warm hand at his front. Zenyatta draws out his cock, chubbed and only growing as he strokes it with gentle, teasing pulls.

The demon's claws sink into the monk's crown, wrenching his head back. Genji's got a hand on his own cock, larger than his body would suggest, strangely ridged and thick at its base.

"Open up," the demon hisses, dragging his clawed hand over his cock, its tip red and dripping.

"Hm, curiously eager," the monk replies, mouth falling open, a startlingly human tongue flattening over his lower lip.

The demon wastes no time forcing the monk's mouth onto his cock, each ridge disappearing without a hitch past those full lips. Not a single flinch. _Fuck_ , McCree's dick throbs in the monk's hand, and he bites his lip watching him take every mean shove the demon gave.

Had they fought and lost, would the monk surrender just the same, used while McCree watched? While he bled out, sightless and dying? A shiver shakes up his spine for all the wrong reasons.

However it could've gone, the monk does not struggle now, one hand resting on the demon's hip, the other still gently working the hunter's cock, flicking his wrist beneath his glans, a hot little spark flaring with each stroke that makes McCree’s eyes roll back.

"Not as fun if you don't choke," the demon sighs, petulance tinged, easing as he buries deep in Zenyatta's throat and holds, squashing the monk's face. His throat constricts, swallowing around the intrusion, a wavering hum touching the air, hands tightening against the demon's armor.

Zenyatta has the decency to look winded after, beads of condensation shining on his face as he pants.

"Suck him too."

McCree startles a moment, then shifts forward, his cock angry red and fully exposed, slightly smaller than the demon's. His faint insecurity flings from his mind when Zenyatta's tongue lashes along his cock; he huffs, low and startled. The monk's cheeks hollow as he suckles the tips of their cocks, jaw widened to the brink. Finally strained, the harried push-pull of both of them moving just out of sync tests Zenyatta’s limits. McCree's legs shake, and he locks his knees to stay standing. Zenyatta's mouth is a wicked tease in this new position, unable to take more than an inch or two, slick and pre dripping down his chin, lips gleaming. His hands drag along their cocks where his mouth cannot reach, fingers trembling as his eyes struggle to stay open. The demon seems to delight in it even so, rocking sloppily, making Zenyatta arch to keep both within him, tongue sliding messily along their undersides. Their cocks grind against each other, wet and quick, agonizing in its inconsistency. Just when McCree’s nearly lost, Genji withdraws, drags his wet cock across the bridge of Zenyatta’s nose, smearing the mess over those fine cheekbones with a low, rumbled laugh.

"Not so wordy now. You can still be mine if you wish. Your hunter too." Those crimson eyes lock with McCree's, and his heart flutters just a bit quicker.

"A deal, once made, cannot be broken," Zenyatta rasps.

"Hmm, it is unfortunate. Now that I know what could have be mine, it makes you sweeter still." Genji shifts his hand over his spit slick cock, cheeks flushed as red as his eyes. "On your stomach."

The monk offers himself up, and McCree shivers, grabbing his own cock and squeezing. Between his metal legs is a pretty sight, a sweet slit, soft and wet, twitching as Genji drops to his knees and yanks the monk's hips into the air. His taps his cock against the hidden space, a pleased grunt escaping as Zenyatta moans quietly into his forearms.

"Keep him busy, hunter,” Genji orders, gesturing once towards the monk's head. "I want you to take your turn after I breed him properly." His eyes burn with the fire's light. "We will see whose seed takes."

Genji gives no warning. Zenyatta rocks forward, body rippling around the intrusion, his voice high and flighty. The thick, wet slaps ring in the clearing, pace so brutal that Zenyatta can only warm McCree's cock in his mouth, moans muffled and desperate.

"Have you had him before, hunter? Did he sing as prettily for you?" Genji groans, claws pinching Zenyatta's hips, scraping marks into his metal. "Or was it you who howled into the sheets? What a sight, a big, hulking hunter at a monk's mercy." His tongue slides over his elongated fangs, driven wild by his own speech, by Zenyatta's mouth working weakly around McCree's cock and his slit swallowing and clenching around his own, how such a thing looks impossible to fit, even as he bottoms out with each hard shove.

The monk seizes around him, and the demon laughs, moans, hunches over as Zenyatta ripples around his cock. McCree's trapped by his expression, eyes rolling back before they flutter closed, lost in the overwhelming sensation, a look of scandalized shock as the demon grunts and fucks him and holds, keeping his promise, a strange, red glow rising over his skin, beautiful as his face twists in his pleasure.

McCree pulls away, thumb and forefinger cinching around the base of his cock, afraid for a moment he would come to at the sight of them, balls throbbing, tight and needy.

He watches Genji thrust shallowly before withdrawing with a slick pop, sweat rolling down his temple.

"Now, hunter."

It feels a blur as he hobbles over, flushed and aching. Zenyatta's hole looks ruined, leaking thick, creamy teal, a mess of it pooling down the back of his thighs and along the curve of his cock, ignored and swollen.

As he pushes in with as much restraint as he can muster, he feels Genji at his back, hungry and powerful and terrifying. The sound of his voice does everything to him, make him fuck fast and hard, harder than he would ever give a human, led by wicked words. It’s like shifting through a dream with how smooth and open Zenyatta is, squeezing deliciously when he pushes balls deep, sloppy with Genji’s mess, drawing closer to that peak with Genji’s breath along his neck and the sounds of their bodies colliding burning his ears.

“You’re next hunter,” the demon purrs. McCree trembles. “We shall see if you can moan just as nicely.”


	9. Reaper/Hanzo, fucking machine, voyeurism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Reaper/Hanzo (as Gabriel Reyes and Scion Hanzo)  
>  **Warnings:** fucking machine, voyeurism, bondage, light d/s themes (more loving than anything) praise, edging/overstimulation, slight sugar daddy undertones, very slight implications of other canon characters watching

A percussive, dark song interrupts their conversation, and Gabe takes the call with a raised hand. Hanzo’s hard-earned discipline keeps his expression neutral. Instead of focusing on his annoyance, he watches the man in front of him.

Gabe’s age is a mystery. He has faint wrinkles when he laughs, lines that frame his round lips bisected with a long scar, alluring and distracting. His dress shirt follows the cut of his body seamlessly, buttons gently strained at his chest, his sleeves rolled up, exposing thick biceps and dark hair. Something like calm settles over Hanzo as he listens to Gabe’s warm, low voice murmuring into the receiver.

When Gabe notices him watching, he winks. Hanzo flushes, pleasant heat snaking through his body. His upbringing allowed no indulgence, especially romantic ones. Endlessly unhappy, with his brother unwanted and father dead, they had fled their old lives with only what cash they could carry.

Genji made it work. He had always been the sociable one, landing odd jobs that kept them afloat. Hanzo reached out to old family contacts who discreetly got him work when they could. Together, they led decent lives, though lacking the decadence of their prestigious family.

Until he met Gabe.

Wit sharp as a blade, handsome as the models in the holovids Hanzo would sneak as a teenager. An associate of one his family's contacts, Gabe had courted Hanzo covertly for months until they had fallen into an arrangement, one that Hanzo found more and more enticing each passing day. Praise. Comfort. Stability in soft ropes that held but didn't hurt, not unless Hanzo wished for it. Someone to take care of him, that stripped him of every responsibility and left only sweet submission.

The only downside is this. Gabe finishes his call, brows pinching together.

"You are busy." Hanzo keeps his voice even.

Gabe's irritation melts away, replaced by a weak smile.

"That doesn't mean you have to leave. Look," Gabe clears the holo screens glowing on his desk, turning his attention to Hanzo. "You've been so good for me. I got you a little present." Gabe swipes his fingers in the air, drawing out a single floating screen.

His breath rushes from his lungs in an instant, cheeks burning. Hanzo has to swallow once before he can speak.

"That is...for me?"

Gabe's smile turns to a grin. "Of course. We can use it tonight. Right now, if you want." The man twists his fingers through the short, tight curls on his head. "Only problem is, I have a ton of work to finish. Ah, ah, don't frown."

Gabe's fingers settle on his chin, fingers teasing through the faint beard just beginning to grow. "I've arranged some replacements. You've been wanting to try that, right?" Gabe breathes. "Being the center of attention?"

Hanzo's not sure he's ever blushed as hotly. He nearly regrets telling this man his secrets in the heat of the moment, but now that the situation has presented itself, Hanzo doesn't dream of saying no.

* * *

Gabe prepares him, nice and easy. He keeps his eyes on his, fingers slowing curling and pumping inside him, dragging over his prostate. Hanzo’s cock fattens embarrassingly fast, heart thundering, pulse throbbing in his ears. Bound as he is on his back, arms laced behind with soft silk, he can strain and twist as much as he pleases.

“I knew you’d like this,” Gabe says, reverence in his gravelly tone.

He tugs something out of his pocket, another silk band. Hanzo groans as Gabe ties it snugly behind his balls and around the base of his cock. Overfull already, balls tight against the soft fabric; he’s never felt their presence so acutely before.

“Don’t want the fun to end so soon.” Gabe’s eyes feel like hands wherever they look, hungry and loving. “Do you want a gag?”

Hanzo whines; he can’t help it. Giving him the choice makes his preference all the more embarrassing. He works his jaw a few moments while Gabe returns his fingers between his spread thighs, sliding to the second knuckle without resistance.

“The gag. P-please,” Hanzo bites. Gabe smiles, and the shame fades when the silk slides between his lips, the knot secured behind his head. “Just for show. You should be able to talk if you need it.”

Hanzo tongues at the silk, dragging along its length, occupied, for a moment, while Gabe steps back to make final arrangements. Mindlessness like a fever settles of Hanzo, guts fluttery and clenching around nothing, lube leaking out of his prepared body.

“So eager. You have done well training him, Gabriel.” A voice in the quiet, gently accented and deeper than Gabe’s.

“Pretty like a picture.” Another voice, male. American. He strains, but the brightest light in the room is upon him, and he can see nothing but Gabe and the thing he’s positioning between his legs.

It is sleek and unassuming until Gabe secures the attachment. The toy is sizeable and thick, veined, immediately familiar.

“Do you like it?” Gabe coos. “It’s an unique cast. Yours truly.”

Hanzo moans, arching into the chaste kiss that Gabe offers, the man’s grin bittersweet as he pulls away.

“Go easy on him, fellas.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Gabe,” a feminine voice teases, dark like glass.

Hanzo doesn’t have time to mourn Gabe’s absence. The toy whirs to life, catching at this hole once, a single second of resistance, before sliding inside. Hanzo stops his first yell, but cannot hold his second, whimpering into the silk clenched between his teeth.

Even prepared, the facsimile of Gabe’s cock spreads his body with a tender almost pain. The toy’s thrusts are slow, shallow things, and he shakes in his bindings, needing more even as he forces his body to relax. It does not pick up, gently grinding into him, a soft, wet smack echoing each time it withdraws and leaves him empty and wanting, punctuated by his muffled gasps.

“Don’t tease him so much. Gimme the controls,” the american says.

“You’ll have your fun. It’s my turn,” the woman’s voice purrs. “Just enjoy the show.”

The toy’s thrusts never change angle, and Hanzo can’t arch to meet it, strain for more, do much of anything besides wait for it to push deeper, to fill him up and fuck him wild. His cock hangs heavy against his stomach, dripping pre into the divot beneath his belly, barely begun and nearly at his end.

Then, it changes. The thrusts sink deeper, but slow to a near halt. Hanzo groans loudly, legs flexing in the stirrups, squeezing around the toy, milking as if it were really Gabe’s, wanting it inside him, though always it draws out, grinding against his prostate with a delicious, unsatisfying ache.

It’s not like fucking Gabe, who would respond to his whimpers, each low, quiet plea. The man would fuck him until he cried, his cock fat and violently red, brough to the brink many times over before denying him again and again.

These strangers Gabe trusts, but Hanzo does not know them, the thought settling heady in his mind. How would they use him? Control him? All the while he aches for Gabe’s attention over the glow of his holo screens, hoping to distract him, even for a few minutes, by his display.

Perhaps the controls change hands; he cannot say. The machine pistons into him, little more than an inch or two, just brushing his prostate with brutal, quick thrusts. He moans, loud and pathetic, as his orgasm teeters dangerously close, only for the thrusts to slow and deepen again, not enough. His entire body is a livewire, focused solely on the toy, reacting to it, nipples peaked and aching and sweat beading as if bathing in a hot springs.

Quiet laughter, a pleased hum. Were they the same voices as the first?

His cock is a painful, traitorous thing, throbbing as if merely a breath upon it would make him come. He thrashes, squeezes down on the toy, but it stops, settled fully in his body, the synthetic balls attached to it slapping with a quiet smack. Hanzo’s hips quake, trying to find the motion himself, fuck himself just enough to come, breathing scandalized and heavy in his own ears, but he cannot fight back the need.

He hears the toy before he feels it, a harsh, staccato whir as it picks up, faster than it’s ever gone, perhaps faster than its human counterpart could manage, but none of that is even a whisper in his mind. His shout is only just muffled by the gag, voice peaking high and broken, those few, shattering moments where it’s too fast, too much, burning his mind empty. It slows to something brutal but real, and the prick of tears punctuates the deep, angry pulse of his body as he loses himself. Big, hot ropes of cum splatter over his stomach, his chest, catch along his lower lip. His body cannot stop moving, struggling, wanting, dancing between too much and not enough. It does not stop, doesn’t even slow, his cock still fat and hot along his stomach, deep, warm sparks of pleasure still burning through his insides.

“Good boy,” Gabe’s voice.

Gabe’s.

He tightens around the toy, moaning deliriously, cock twitching as the toy speeds and slows, playing with him, on the edge again after so little time, the quiet murmurs of his audience muted against the pleasure, roiling and unstoppable.

Hanzo doesn’t know how many times he comes, a tumultuous, pleasant blur. There are hands on him, and he arches into it, realizing that he can. The whir of the toy is gone. Something hot, more real, presses deliciously against the swollen gape of his ass.

“Ready for the real thing?”

Gloved hands pet along his trembling, exhausted thighs. A familiar, beautiful comfort.

Hanzo cannot agree quickly enough.


	10. Mondatta/Zenyatta, lap dance, sexbot au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Mondatta/Zenyatta   
>  **Warnings:** lap dance, implied sex bot, valve, piv, frottage, angst? ?
> 
>  

“You returned,” Zenyatta says. The omnic’s posture is relaxed, but his array brightens by several lumens.

“I endeavor to keep my promises.”

Mondatta does not wear his kasaya. Instead, a three piece suit, trimmed with saffron accents and a thin, matching tie, conceals his pared down chassis. There are omnics of his model, even some who alter their faceplates to match those of the Shambali. Here, he will be as viceroy to monarch.

“My answer remains the same.” A beat. Zenyatta’s array, three points in a vertical line, alternate.

Mondatta’s guards close the door, and the omnic settles into the same plush chair as before, observing the room, the uneasy aura, oscillating between harmony and discord.

“You need not bend to my whims for me to enjoy your company, pleasant as it would be to have it always.”

Mondatta wonders if it is narcisstic to find Zenyatta pleasing. An older model, yes, but from the same line as himself. Under his wing, Zenyatta would flourish and gain his arrays, a higher purpose. Perhaps his final faceplate would match Mondatta’s, perhaps not. There is something unique to Zenyatta, a curious way of thinking that turns his on its side. An uncut gem, lodged in stone.

His thoughts drift as Zenyatta approaches, hips shifting like placid waves, synced to the quiet beat of bell and drums through hidden speakers. Zenyatta sinks into his lap, undulating, not quite touching his front, thighs bracketing his own. His thin, elegant fingers twist behind Mondatta’s neck, sliding along hidden spinal wires.

“Your words are very pretty,” Zenyatta murmurs. A single slide, bodies flush for an instant, before Zenyatta shifts away, swaying to the song, a mockery of tranquil temple chimes.“There are many here who long for such kindness.” Lower, beneath the hum of their bodies. Just for him.

Mondatta’s fingers settle along Zenyatta’s thighs, not quite grasping, stretching the gauzy fabric of the stockings buttoned to his black panties, his only adornments. For all Mondatta’s care in attire, his own modesty panel had been left in his hotel room. His cock swells, restrained only by his clothing, as he watches the other move, Zenyatta’s lights flickering, body just catching against his own.

“Is that why you refuse me?” Mondatta’s hands skirt higher, along the hem of black silk, locked on the fattened jut of Zenyatta’s own cock, barely hidden from his receptors.

“And if it was?” Zenyatta says into the side of his faceplate, metal lips sliding together with a clink, something forbidden and electric jumping between their bodies. “You cannot save us all.”

Mondatta hums, trapped between consideration and the gentle, sensual rocking that draws closer and closer, Zenyatta’s array tipping to survey him, survey his cock straining against the seams of his pants.

“No, I cannot.” His fingers creep over the gap that separates Zenyatta’s legs from his middle and seals around the thin struts of his waist, pulling him down. “But, perhaps, with you, I could.”

The soft, shocked chitter echoes from Zenyatta’s synth when Mondatta grinds into him, the curve of their cocks finding one another. The omnic falls out of sync, but does not still his shifting, catching again and again over Mondatta’s aching form, dancing to something entirely different.

“You did not come here to speak,” Zenyatta continues, voice oddly airy, another gentle sound escaping as he frees Mondatta’s cock, the appendage slapping against his hand, shined with slick.

Zenyatta pulls away for a startling moment, but it is only to turn around. Mondatta groans as he resettles, the sound of the music intensifying, a rhythmic haze of a song that pales in comparison to the omnic rocking against him. Zenyatta tugs his panties to one side, exposing him, wet and dripping. He grinds back on his cock, and Mondatta grabs his hips again, not quite controlling, fighting restraint and need in turns.

The omnic shakes him through. Did he want to control? Or did he want Zenyatta to do as he pleased?

Mondatta’s cock is a throbbing line along the faint divot of Zenyatta’s backside, grinding just above the pulsing warmth where Zenyatta leaks. He shifts, catching the half-beat between notes, slipping his cock against warm, smooth thighs, along the dripping ache of the other’s valve, and Zenyatta chirrups, a note that’s echoed in whatever served for omnic dreams since the first time Mondatta heard it. Now his fingers tighten around his hips, hold Zenyatta in place to meet his jumbled thrusts. The omnic in his lap tenses.

“W-wait.”

Fuschia bleeds into Mondatta’s processes for a harrowing moment.

“Your suit. It will be ruined.”

Shaking fingers snake around Mondatta’s cock, angling it properly as Zenyatta’s hips rise, settling it against his valve. The memory of it is almost as heady as having it seconds before the omnic sinks onto his cock, both moaning at the intrusion.

Somehow, against it all, Mondatta fights off the hot need to tear Zenyatta into his lap again and again, have his synth rattling pleas, ashamed of the desires that filter through his thoughts while Zenyatta clenches around him like they were made for each other. The omnic swivels his hips, sets his own pace, Mondatta helplessly watching his cock disappear and reappear to the sweet, rhythmic snapping of his Zenyatta’s body, each time wetter, hotter than the last.

“Please, Zenyatta,” Mondatta whispers, arm curling around his breastplate and pulling Zenyatta flush to his chest. The position deepens; the throb and shudder of Zenyatta’s body tells Mondatta how close he is, how he chases his own pleasure. “Come with me.”

Zenyatta’s head rolls back, resting in the crook of Mondatta’s neck, his hands scrambling to clasp the arm clutching him, the only part of Mondatta he can reach as he starts to chitter and whir, coming with hard, twitching throbs that nearly overload Mondatta too.

The omnic relaxes against his chest, and Mondatta doesn’t let him go, clings desperately as he begins to rock up into the still twitching warmth of him, his overload a brightening spark in his processes.

“Asking me now.” Zenyatta utters shakily. “You truly are cruel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** And with that, we’re done with kinktober! Thanks everyone for all your prompts. :)) If you want to hang out and chat, find me on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


End file.
